


Always Keep Them on a Leash

by ScreechTheMighty



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: 5 + 1, Character Study, Gen, anger issues, mention of rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 18:56:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3866023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScreechTheMighty/pseuds/ScreechTheMighty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, five times Matt Murdock lost his cool when he was alone, and one time he did it when he had company.</p><p>(Updated on 3/1/2017 as part of my Great Fic Cleansing of 2017.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Keep Them on a Leash

**Author's Note:**

> Edited this fic on 3/1/2017 to fix questionable grammar/sentence structure/writing in general.

**i.**

_No, thanks. It’s been a long day. I’m going to head home._

That was a lie.

He felt terrible about lying to his friends about something else— _forgive me, Father, for I have sinned_ —but he needed to have this to himself. He couldn’t have Foggy or Karen walking in on him and seeing him let loose. Foggy had seen him angry, sure, but Foggy hadn’t seen him _angry._ Matt had been careful to avoid that.

The lights were out in the gym when he got there. Technically, it was already closed, but the gym’s owner had given him a key to the place years ago. He’d known Matt’s dad pretty well; Matt got the feeling that the man felt sorry for him. It was one time when Matt didn’t resent someone’s pity. It worked out in his favor. He walked across the room to the nearest punching bag. He put down his duffel bag and wrapped his hands, slowly, carefully. He took a stance in front of the bag and tried to clear his mind.

When clearing his mind didn’t work, he started punching the bag, as hard and as fast as he could. He didn’t picture a person taking the place of the punching bag; this wasn’t a problem that he could narrow down to one person. If only it were. If it were, he’d find _them_ and…

And…

He drowned the thought out with more punches. He could hear the dull _thud_ of his fists hitting the bag, feel the vibrations of the blows running up his arms. It felt like with every blow, his anger grew. It crawled up his throat, clawed at his chest, whispered in his ears. He hit harder. It didn’t accomplish anything, but in a sick way, it felt _good._ Even the jarring ache that started forming in his knuckles felt good. Sharp. Solid. Real.

Again. Again. Again. If the bag was a human, their ribs would be broken. Their blood would be all over his hands. _His_ blood would be all over his hands, oozing from split knuckles out of stinging cuts. Harder. Harder. _Harder._

“Damn it, _damn it, **damn it…**_ ”

He over-swung on his last blow, throwing him off his balance and sending him tumbling forward against the back. Matt caught himself on it. The solid weight of the bag against his chest jarred him from the red haze of his anger. It bled away, leaving a dull ache in his heart and his hands. He straightened back up and jabbed at the bag again. His heart wasn’t in it anymore. Again. No, this wasn’t working.

Matt rested a hand against the bag and tried to clear his mind again.

It wasn’t completely clear by the time he left, but it was enough.

 

 **ii.**  

“ _Objection,_ your honor!”

He was on his feet. That didn’t happen often. Of all the places to keep his cool, the courtroom was probably number one on the list. But now, it was taking every ounce of self-control Matt had not to launch himself over the bench and break the prosecutor’s jaw. “The prosecution is harassing my client,” said Matt. His voice was clear, despite the fact that his grip on his cane had gone tight enough to hurt. “If there’s a question in any of this, I’d like to hear it.” There wasn’t a question. Just words slung at a scared teenager who was being charged with slander for speaking out against her _rapist…_

“Sustained,” said the judge. She was more open with her anger, and Matt had never been happier to hear it. “Watch your tone, counselor, and watch your words.”

There was a space of silence, during which time Matt could hear the girl struggling not to cry. The soft gasp must have been audible to the entire room, because it was followed by murmurs from the jury box. Sympathy. Matt knew that’d help his case, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel happy about it. “The court will take a fifteen minute recess,” said the judge. “When we return, I expect the prosecution to show the witness a little more restraint.”

Matt was heading for the door the second the gavel came down. “Hey, Matt,” Foggy said, his hand brushing against Matt’s sleeve.

“I need a minute.”

Foggy didn’t press him after that. He’d heard that tome before, and he knew to give Matt his space when he did. Matt was first out the door, and he was quick to find an abandoned hallway to duck into.  It wasn’t as abandoned as he’d like (a cluster of people down the hall, talking in low tones), and there was nothing to hit (aside from the wall, but he couldn’t do that in public). It would have to do, for now. He stood with his back pressed against the wall and his hands gripping his cane. He focused on breathing: in through his nose, out through his mouth. One deep breath after another. Tempting as it was, he did _not_ dwell on the mental image of hunting that kid down and making him bleed. That would only make him want to do it.

_Breathe, Murdock. Breathe._

He closed his eyes, for all the good it did him, and tuned out the noise around him, focusing solely on the sound of his own heartbeat and breathing. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. Eventually, he felt his grip on the cane loosen. His anger turned down to a low simmer. It may not have gone away entirely, but he could live with that. As long as he didn’t feel the urge to hurt anyone.

There was still time left in the recess. When Matt found Foggy, he was comforting their client. “That guy’s just an asshole,” Foggy said. “Look, we’ve got this. We’ve got this, right Matt?”

Matt didn’t answer right away. As he approached their client, he could hear her heartbeat more and more clearly: loud, fast, and desperate. She was trembling, too. “Sam?” said Matt quietly. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t do this.” Her voice was thick with sobs, and shaking, just like her body. “I can’t go back out there, I can’t…”

“Sam. Samantha, I need you to listen to me.” He reached forward until his hand was resting on her shoulder. “I know you’re scared right now, and you have every right to be. But I promise, we’re going to win this. We’re going to nail this son of a bitch to the wall. And I know that you can do this.” He gently squeezed her shoulders. “You can.”

No response from Samantha. But he felt her trembling begin to still. “How much longer until the recess is over?” Matt asked Foggy.

“Uh five…six minutes.”

“Okay. Take a deep breath. If he tries anything like that again, we’ll get him.”

“I’ll throw the book at him,” Foggy added. “Literally. I will throw a book at him.”

“He’ll do it. Foggy has a mean throw.”

Samantha laughed. The sound was thick with tears, but it was still a laugh. “Okay.” She sniffed. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You haven’t done anything wrong.” Matt gently patted her shoulder. “We’ve got your back, Samantha. We’re going to win this.”

After six minutes, Samantha was back on the witness stand. “I know that look,” Foggy muttered to Matt as they sat back down.

“What look?”

“You’re out for blood, man. Just don’t hurt anyone?”

Matt smiled thinly. He didn’t make any promise to hurt anyone, because he wasn’t sure it was a promise he could keep.

They won the case.

Matt didn’t go after the boy or the prosecutor, instead picturing them in place of the punching bag at the gym.

 

**iii.**

Just that morning, they’d been discussing the number of potential witnesses that had been scared off by their opponent. Every time they thought they had someone who could blow a hole in this, they’d call the next day and say they couldn’t testify.

It was bad enough that he decided to take matters into his own hands.

A blow hit him across the cheek, sending his head snapping back. Matt recovered and returned the blow with a few of his own. He kept hitting until the man went down and didn’t get back up.

Footsteps approached from behind. He turned around in time to take another blow to the face. He stumbled back. The pain spread across his face from the cut on his cheek, the split in his lip, the bruise forming under his eye.

He laughed.

Nothing about the situation was funny, but he laughed. He must have sounded like a madman—he must have _looked_ worse. Black mask, bloodstained teeth, bleeding in several places and _laughing_. The goon’s heartbeat started racing in shock and fear. He didn’t back down, though. Matt respected that. He beat the shit out of the guy anyway, but he respected that he hadn’t backed down.

Once the third one was down, the first one—the one Matt _thought_ was out for the count—began to stir. “Stay down,” Matt growled.

The figure did not stay down. Matt charged him. They were both in pain, enough to throw them off their game, but Matt had the benefit of being _really_ pissed off.

 _It’s not about how hard you hit, sometimes it’s about_ where…

Matt’s next blow sent the goon sprawling back. “I said, stay _down._ ” The kick he delivered to the man’s ribs was probably unnecessary. But it felt good. It felt _really_ good.

It started raining as he stood in the alleyway. He heard a door open through the white noise of the rain. A heartbeat, skipping a beat from surprise. Their latest in a long string of witnesses. But maybe this one would actually make it to trial.

“Do you know who these men are?” Matt asked without turning around.

“…is, uh…is this about the…the loan case?” Matt could hear the figure’s breathing catch and his heart rate kick up. “Oh, god, were they coming for me?”

“Not anymore.” Despite the pain still throbbing across his body, Matt smiled. “Call 911. Tell them what happened. Don’t answer the door for anyone who’s not police.”

“O-okay. Wh-what if they send someone else?”

“They might.” He wasn’t going to lie about that. Some people would do anything to keep the power they had. “But I won’t let them hurt you. I promise.”

He spent the next night, and several nights after, staking out the witness’s apartment.

This one actually showed up in the courtroom.

 

 **iv.**  

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been one month since my last confession.”

He could have done this face to face, over a cup of coffee. Seal of Confession still applied. That was what Father said. But sometimes, he needed to do it like this. Matt was sure that was why the confessional was designed the way it was. You didn’t have to look your priest in the eye, or feel them looking at you. The wall offered anonymity, a chance to cleanse yourself without feeling judged.

The priest knew exactly who he was—this was Matt’s usual time. But the grate still made this feel easier.

“Last week, I found a man in an alley, attacking someone else.” He remembered hearing the screams as he stood on the rooftops. “I went to stop him.”

“Are you confessing that you assaulted the other man? From where I’m sitting, it sounds like you did that to defend the other person.”

“It’s not the fact that I assaulted him, Father. It’s why I did it. I didn’t just do it because he was hurting someone. I was…angry.”

It felt like one of those days where everything was going wrong. A case was blowing up in their faces, some files had been _misplaced_ in a way that implied some very deliberate misplacing, and Matt had to leave the office early to avoid putting a hole in the wall. He hadn’t planned on going out that night, but when he walked back to his apartment, he moved right to where he kept his suit. He’d gone out. And the first thing he’d heard was that assault taking place.

And he’d snapped.

“I didn’t hurt that man because he was hurting someone else, not entirely.” As Matt spoke, he was suddenly eight years old again, sitting in a confessional for the first time, shaking, explaining to the priest how angry he would get sometimes. “I hurt him because I wanted to. Because it felt good.”

It didn’t feel good anymore. In fact, thinking about the incident only made him feel sick.

 _Those Murdock boys, they’ve got the devil in them._ On days like this, he was convinced it was true.

**v.**

Dad put a dent in the wall once.

Matt had been little when it happened, too little to remember exactly what had happened and why Dad had punched the wall. When he asked, Dad said it had something to do with the landlord and the rent. He didn’t really elaborate beyond that. In hindsight, Matt wondered if it was something else--something to do with those men who'd come to the gym not too long before his dad died, made him say the words  _I go down in the fifth._ But it didn't matter. Same result either way.

There was a dent in the bathroom wall in Matt’s apartment. He remembered exactly when and why he’d caused the dent. He hadn’t been living in the apartment for long. A couple living up the street would get into screaming matches almost every night. With every passing night, he heard one voice grow more and more afraid, while the other grew more and more angry. He knew what was going on. He drowned out the noise by fantasizing about going to the apartment and making the aggressor _stop._ One good blow, right to the jaw. That’d do it.

One day, the screaming did stop, and was replaced by sirens. He heard about the case on the radio the next morning. He didn’t throw the radio, though he was tempted. He tried to keep his anger contained, but he couldn’t. When Foggy asked him what happened to his hand, Matt brushed it off and said it was an accident.

Sometimes, he’d run his hand over the indentation in the wall. He never got it fixed. He wasn’t sure if it was because getting it fixed would mean someone seeing it, or because he wanted to keep it there. Because he wanted a reminder of what he was capable of.

Because he  _needed_ a reminder of what he was capable of.

 

 

 

  **i.**

There weren’t many places to escape to in their space. His office to the left, Foggy’s to the right, Karen in the middle, and a closet where they kept the snacks and the coffee machine. His office was closest, so he went there.

He couldn’t lose it. Not here, not with Foggy and Karen in the next room. But he could feel it building up in him, that _anger_ , piercingly  hot and fierce, and he wanted nothing more than to put his fist through the wall. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in…

He turned around and kicked his desk. Matt heard the wood splinter, and felt a jolt of pain in his foot. _Shit. Shit. Stupid,_ stupid, _Murdock…_

“ _S_ _hit_ , Matt...!”

Door. He’d forgotten to close the door behind him. And now Foggy was standing there, probably staring at the dent Matt had left in his desk. It must have been bad, from the way Foggy’s heartbeat stuttered in surprise. “Are you okay?” Foggy asked.

 _I just kicked a hole in my desk, Foggy, what do you_ think?! Despite the vitriol in that thought, Matt found his anger bleeding away, to be replaced by a strong sense of shame. “I’m fine.” Matt’s shoulders slumped. It was a weak lie and he knew it. _I didn't want him to see that._ “No, I’m not.”

“Okay, well…sit down. The desk didn’t do anything.” Foggy stepped carefully into the office. “Do you…want to talk about it? I know, I know, not your priest…”

“It’s fine.” Matt sat down carefully. The pain in his foot was fading. He was almost disappointed it was. “I can’t…” He had to stop to take a breath. “Feels like no matter what we do, the scumbags keep coming.”

“Yeah, I know.” Foggy kept pacing in front of Matt’s chair, the floor creaking with every step. “But we’re going to get this one, right? You and me?” His footsteps moved closer, and Matt felt him gently punch his shoulder. “Best damn avocados?”

Matt tried to smile. It probably didn’t come out right. “We’ll get him,” he repeated, with a bit less conviction than Foggy was probably looking for. “Nelson and Murdock are on the case.”

“Damn straight.” Foggy’s voice said he was smiling, but that it was a strained smile. Matt had heard that tone before. “Look, you’re not…you’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?”

Matt knew that tone, too. Wary, fearful. The _please don’t put on that suit_ voice. Foggy had been using it a lot since he found out about the Devil.

The worst part was, Matt couldn’t blame him for it.

“No, Foggy,” he said quietly. “I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

And he didn’t. For once, he didn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Arsonist's Lullabye" by Hozier, because it's a great song for Matt Murdock. Also, I don't know anything about how Real Court works, so sorry if any of the legal stuff in the second bit is inaccurate.


End file.
